The Three Fates
by Dark Manifest
Summary: They were the Fates, the best there were in the business, tight-knit, unbreakable, unstoppable. Spike, Vicious, and Julia vignettes.
1. Paradise

The Three Fates  
  
All disclaimers apply.  
  
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Paradise: Julia  
  
It wasn't planned. I swear to God it wasn't . . . although at this point, I'm sure God has turned a deaf ear to anything I have to say. But that's fine. I'll make my own fate, my own destiny, and continue living on borrowed time. We all have to die someday; I won't bemoan the state of my soul until then. Some people might say that's too late, but it's just in time for me. I do my best talking with a gun to my head, or with the fires of Hell at my back. Most women do.  
  
When I met them, they were brothers. There's no other word for it. Whether literally or in the bloodless sense, the two of them might as well have been twins. Fraternal at best, but twins no matter how you put it. They moved differently . . . one with fluid ease, the other with catlike ferocity . . . different, yet alike. They looked different . . . one tousled and tanned and seductively rumpled as if he had just rolled out of bed with a cherished lover, the other pale and neat with iron calm and mediated perfection like a hunter carved from white jade . . . somehow, still alike. Their eyes were different, one set mismatched, melting mahagony, the other icy, translucent gray . . . but with similar challenges within their gazes, similar arrogance and fierceness.  
  
At first glance, you would say they were nothing alike, nothing at all. But then . . . I saw them fight together. The way they spoke, the way they moved--wordless communication, flawless articulation, perfect unison, to the point of reading each others' minds, it seemed. Like making love, only with ice-cold clarity. And when facing death, fearlessly, mockingly, they would smile.  
  
God, that smile. Slim, serpentine, chilling to the core, the smile of a fallen angel who never really liked Heaven anyway and couldn't wait to meet the innocent Eve and seduce her into a demon's embrace.  
  
That was what they had in common the most. That terrible, beautiful smile.  
  
I'll tell you the truth. I liked the one with mismatched eyes first. Spike. I did. He was so irreverant, so cool and languid, liquid marble, as if he hadn't a care in the world. Mocking his body with those damn cigarettes--God, he was the worst chain smoker I'd ever seen--and yet capable of running up twenty flights of stairs without slowing down. I saw him do it.  
  
So why didn't I choose him first? He scared me, to be perfectly honest. Nothing fooled him, no type of tough act or smart remark made him any less perceptive of truth, any less accepting of the most horrible facts. Those mismatched eyes peeled away my layers with a single lazy glance paired with an easy grin. He saw me, all of me, whether I wanted him to or not.  
  
He promised without words to be both a best friend and a lover, know all my secrets and show me his.  
  
So, yeah, he scared me shitless.  
  
And so, when the other offered, I accepted. The safe choice.  
  
Not to say the other, Vicious, was in any way safe. The things in him that didn't phase me or Spike frightened everyone else around him. He didn't have that name just to be cute; it fit too well. There was a reason why he chose to kill with a sword, that long katana of his. It made killing more personal, more real. And yet he was a cold killer, uncaring. Where Spike did what he had to, Vicious drew it out. He lived for the hunt, for the game, us simply proving we were better than the rest. A white tiger dropping silently from the trees, or an albino snake, injecting lethal poison for no other reason than being disturbed.  
  
Vicious. Yes, an appropriate title.  
  
But that was okay. Vicious could never disturb me, assassin though he was. He took me as I was, blonde bombshell, sleek leather-clad killer, seductive deciever, accepted all of my facade without comment, and I wanted that so much. Whether or not he knew of what I showed him, either of them, that wasn't real . . . who knows? Most likely he didn't care, at first.  
  
Then, suddenly, it got deeper than that. It went wrong.  
  
In the beginning, we were the best. The Three Fates, those around the Syndicate named us jokingly. They called me Paradise because I would taunt mercilessly, called Vicious Damnation because he condemned without hesitation, and called Spike Purgatory because he never seemed to give a damn either way. We were the Fates, the best there were in the business, tight-knit, unbreakable, unstoppable. One day we would rule the Clan. Everyone knew it, and no one hoped for anything less.  
  
It was so perfect. So right. And of course, it went straight to Hell.  
  
To this day, I'm not sure how it happened. It crept up slowly, unseen, undetected until it was far too late. Hanging out when Vicious had a loner mission, late nights at bars playing pool and hustling cards and starting brawls, which Vicious deemed utterly immature, racing zipcrafts at breakneck speeds just for the hell of it, while Vicious cursed us from the sidelines.  
  
At first, it was innocent, just his best friend and his girlfriend, his partners, enjoying each other's company. But then . . .  
  
Slowly, the conversations got deeper. Slowly, Spike sifted through my layers until he found the true me, and I stared into his strange, two-colored eyes for a millisecond too long, seeing things that tugged at portions of my soul left dormant for ages. And when the day came that those mismatched mahagony eyes looked at me with nothing less than love, I knew I was doomed. I knew I wanted him, all of him, knew that I could live my life with him . . . happy, truly happy, for the first time in ever.  
  
I also knew it would never happen.  
  
Vicious . . . wasn't stupid. He knew the moment it happened. I remember that day Spike and I returned to the Loft after an endless night, staring at the stars and making confessions and acting on desires that we knew weren't right, could only destroy everything we'd ever valued. But we didn't care. Not then.  
  
We approached the Loft, speaking softly, trying to decide what to do, if there was anything we *could* do . . . and there was Vicious, standing at the top of the stairs, hands in the pants pockets of his impeccable suit. Watching us with those frozen, analytical eyes. Back two days early from a solo mission.  
  
In that moment, he knew. We knew he did.  
  
And there wasn't a damn thing we could do about it.  
  
I'm not so arrogant as to believe I was the one that solely tore those two brothers apart. No, it wasn't just me. I was just the added stone on an ancient bridge that finally collapsed under the weight. Just one more piece to the quiet resentment that existed between them, the shred of curious distrust that was nothing before me and everything afterward.  
  
Everything fell apart.  
  
What happened next was a hazy blur, a dream so far gone into a nightmare that it was impossible to even see the transition. Suddenly, Spike was laying in a bloody heap in front of my apartment door, half-dead, Vicious was holding a gun to my head, telling me I would never live to see the sun rise unless I killed the man I loved, and it seemed like the Syndicate itself had become our enemy.  
  
Spike wanted out. And he wanted me to go with him.  
  
I was so stupid to believe that a woman like me could ever be happy.  
  
I did the only thing left to do. I ran. I ran and I didn't stop running. I ran . . . and the pallid tiger chased, ever present. I hadn't done as he'd wanted, and so I would never find peace.  
  
I disappeared from sight, never in one place for too long. The only time I made any kind of connections was on Callisto, one frozen stormy night in a place called The Blue Crow, with a man who wasn't just a man, who played the sax like a willing lover.  
  
But I didn't stay long. I kept moving. I'll always be moving, until the hunter finally catches up to me, and tears my traitor's heart clean from my body.  
  
And now . . . right now. I look back and I won't say I'm sorry. I may or may not be, but it doesn't matter. I do, I did, what I've always done. I lie, like all women lie, because we were molded by a race that doesn't understand the truth. I betray, because my soul is too scarred to trust, to believe, in anything anymore. I run, because I can't face who I am, what I've done.  
  
And I want. I want most what I can never have without a price that's too high to pay. A price that will be paid anyway, regardless of what I do or where I go. I found something worthwhile, something real, for the first time in my life, and I let it slip away. Now I know I can't get it back. Ever.  
  
I'll see them again. One day soon. The three years of running, of waiting, are drawing to a close, and the Three Fates are destined to come together again. Paradise, Purgatory, and Damnation.  
  
Like I said, I make my own fate, and I know I'm living on borrowed time.  
  
Time's up.  
  
~end~  
  
Author's Note: If the reviews are good, I'll make this into a trilogy, with POV's from the other two people in this twisted triangle. It's all up to you readers. Later. 


	2. Purgatory

The Three Fates  
  
All disclaimers apply.  
  
Author's Note: The hoped-for reviews have come in, few but poignant and very flattering, and so I'm continuing with chapter 2. To my readers, merci beaucoup! That's 'thanks' to those of you who are French-challenged. At least, I think it is . . . ^_^. As one reviewer pointed out, I kind of roped myself into a trilogy with the title alone--maybe I should have just called it 'Fate' and saved myself the brain freeze from typing all night long . . . nah. Besides, what's a Bebop story without a heads-up from Spike Spiegel?  
  
Read on, enjoy, and, of course, review!  
  
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Purgatory: Spike  
  
~Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.~  
  
Sometimes I wonder where that rhyme came from. It seems innocent enough, something children sing, something you whistle absently when you can't think of anything else to whistle. Harmless. But no one can remember who made it, or why. Things that have no past or history, things so deeply embedded in culture or in life or in the soul that it's hard to tell from where it originated in the first place . . . those things are dangerous. The most dangerous of all, because if you don't know how something started, it's all that much harder to make it stop.  
  
Do you remember how, as a kid, you'd play "Ring Around The Rosey"? Clasp hands with your friends and spin in a circle, singing, "Ring around the rosey/Pocket full of posies/Ashes, ashes, we all fall down!" Then you'd all hit the ground, laughing. It was such a simple game, fun and silly and harmless.  
  
And then you'd get to junior high or high school and learn about the Black Death, the bubonic plague that slaughtered millions of people in only a few years. You'd learn that the simple game you'd played when you were little was actually a mantra sung by children to keep away sickness and death, that the last line--ashes, ashes, we all fall down--didn't mean what you thought it meant. And you'd wonder why so many people forgot, and let their children sing about suffering and laugh.  
  
Maybe "Row Your Boat" is just like that. A song once sung in all seriousness to chase away demons reduced to a little tune everyone sings without knowing why. Maybe to row your boat down the stream means that life will carry you forward towards death no matter what you do, and you might as well go along with it and take your time, because living is brief, anyway, so we should enjoy it while we can.  
  
Or maybe it means that nothing in life is real, just some complex illusion conjured up from thwarted dreams and desires, like looking at your fluid and distorted reflection in rushing water that never stays still enough for you to see yourself clearly. It's you, but it isn't you. It's real, but it isn't real. Like that.  
  
I don't know. I've been thinking strange and pointless thoughts like that for three years now. Trying to find the meaning of it all, wondering if there even is a meaning. Wondering if any of it really happened. And if it did, where am I going now? Why am I here?  
  
Things were so simple back then. There were the Dragons, and missions, and zipcraft, and guns, and cigarettes, and me, and Vicious. Nothing too complex. I lived with the philosophy that things are meant to be pondered, not necessarily understood. It made it easier to go day to day with a limited amount of hardships.  
  
But then there was . . . Julia.  
  
Women. Women are nothing but trouble. I knew it, Vicious knew it, but people take clichés for granted, forgetting why they became so common in the first place.  
  
She seemed like a cliché, at first. You know, the blonde femme fatale, with an eager trigger finger, long legs, and a killer smile like an angel but the skills of a devil. Hell in high heels. But she was good at what she did and the Syndicate took her on. Really good, because they put her with us. Me and Vicious. The best of the best, the resident golden boys, reckless, deathless, and practically unfailing in every mission we had.  
  
I met her before I knew she was even in the Syndicate. In a smoky bar with blues wailing in the background and the sounds of soft conversation and pool being played. She didn't look like a cliché then. In the frail lighting and cool atmosphere, dressed in black leather that hugged every considerable curve, soft waves of hair the color of old gold falling over her shoulders, her slim hip cocked and a pool stick in one hand, she turned, noticed me with those midnight blue eyes, smiled . . . and it was over. I was smitten.  
  
Then I found out she was going to join our team, and it was like someone snuffed out a candle. Poof. Hiss. I was against it from the start, mostly because I knew why the Elders were putting her with Vicious and I. See, despite our skill, we had a habit of--shall we say, overdoing things? Vicious would leave behind unnecessary trails of bodies, and me . . . well, whole buildings tended to fall apart in my wake, despite my best efforts. Julia was supposed to be the leash on a pair of useful but unruly mutts, and I didn't appreciate it at all.  
  
It wasn't that I didn't like her--I did, a lot. And it sure as hell wasn't that she wasn't good enough. She was that, and more.  
  
But my partner and I had a unique way of doing things. A technique we had perfected through time, trial and error. Reading each other, knowing each other, better than we knew ourselves. The two of us were the best because we weren't just two; in the heat of battle, we were one, with two sets of arms and legs, two sets of senses, infallible instincts and a shared death wish to outside observers.  
  
Add a third to that kind of dynamic, and it would just throw everything off.  
  
The scary thing was . . . she didn't. Julia just added to the rhythm, filled out the sound. Like adding drums to the saxophone and piano of a good jazz song.If I was the crazy brass and Vicious the cool ivory, she was the thrumming skins.  
  
We sounded good together. We sounded great.  
  
And it was fun for awhile, it really was. Wild, dangerous, ridiculous at times but altogether cool, life just the way I liked it. Just me, Vicious, and Julia. Even when the two of them got together, everything was still cool. Fun and simple.  
  
It didn't stay that way. Like a nursery rhyme with a dark past, or a fairy tale that originally didn't end with a happily ever after.  
  
I said that Julia seemed like a cliché. But I knew from the start that she wasn't. She was everything original about life, about women, and anything extra was just a well-cultivated outer image. A person I could talk to, be with, and every second was a new discovery, and a new mystery. It was like there were things about her that I valued in myself, things about her that I wanted for myself, and things about her that were so new that I couldn't resist learning all I could about her. I wanted to know what made her laugh, what made her cry, why she hid the truth so much and why she was so cynical, so sad.  
  
I fell for her, and I fell hard, fast, and deep. So deep I think I broke some bones on the way down. To this day, I don't know how it happened or why I could never stop falling. If was as if I stipped my soul down to its barest componants, gave her the key to putting it back together, and forgot to make myself a copy.  
  
Sorry. I'm not explaining this very well. But I don't think it's something I can explain. I'm not great with words, even worse with expressing my emotions and all that shit, and like I said, my philosophy is to wonder, not to understand. Long story short? I was in love with my best friend's girlfriend. It's easier to just say it like it was.  
  
It wasn't until I realized just how far gone I was that it occurred to me how utterly dangerous my feelings were. The two of them weren't serious, not at all, what they had was barely more than a fling. But even if they'd broken up on good terms, I still shouldn't have done what I did. It's uncomfortable, it's awkward, and it's just plain wrong, being with a woman who was also with your best friend. I don't do drama, and that just had soap opera written all over it.  
  
But that didn't matter. Not at all. I could think about it until my head exploded, play the scenes out like an ongoing horror movie in my head, and the sad thing is, even looking back on it now, I would do it again. I would tell her I love her, hold her in my arms, spend the night with her, knowing that I was cleanly putting to death a friendship that had been worth more than anything else in my shitty, pointless life.  
  
And you know what the worst part of it is? The punchline to a really bad joke? I never really found out if she felt the same about me. She never said the words, and when I did, her eyes would just fill with pain and she would hold me tighter.  
  
I suppose . . . she felt the same, if she gave up everything on that night three years ago. I suppose . . . since she didn't kill me. If she had, she would have been free. If she had . . .  
  
Hah. I gave up everything for 'suppose.' But that's all right.  
  
And Vicious? Well, Vicious . . . I don't want to talk about him. It doesn't matter, anymore. I don't know him like I used to; maybe I never did. I chose who I wanted. I knew I couldn't have both. And so he is no longer a factor. He wants me dead, tried to kill me, and that's fine. Death, I understand. Anything else, and I would have a real problem coping.  
  
Like I'm doing so well as it is.  
  
I'm a dead man, now. Well, not literally, I guess. It feels like it, but no. The Syndicate thinks I'm dead, and that's why I'm still breathing. But I'm not dead. I can't say I'm alive, either. I'm starting to wonder if I ever really was. Things I did and people I knew and emotions I felt feel faded and translucent, now, as if it all happened to someone else, and at the same time, more real than anything I'm living now.  
  
That's funny. I'm between my death and my life, trying to decide which one is reality.  
  
They used to call me Purgatory. The name fits now more than ever.  
  
Maybe that's what the song means. You think?  
  
I'll wake up, eventually. You can't stay in limbo forever. Maybe dead people dream forever, but I'm not dead. Not yet. I just have to find out if what life I had was even a life. If there was anything beyond the gray, beyond the patchwork quilt I see that is one big sorry remnant of my sorry existance.  
  
Even dreams die, just like people. Eventually.  
  
~Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily . . . life is but a dream.~  
  
~end~  
  
Author's Note: Spike was more difficult than Julia, being that he's more complex as the main character of the series, and I hope my version of his thoughts was accurate. However, Spike and Julia are nothing compared to the hell writing Vicious is going to put me through. Oh, well. No going back now. All reviews would be welcome. 


	3. Damnation

The Three Fates  
  
All disclaimers apply.  
  
Author's Note: Yes, the final installment has arrived, at last. My apologies for taking so very long to update, but as I predicted, Vicious turned out to be the most difficult of the threesome to write. Delving into his personality and motives was a true challenge for me. I've done my best to craft him, as I have all three of them, and I hope you enjoy my version of his point-of-view.  
  
And my thanks to my readers and reviewers for encouraging me to the end. Your interest and praise has been much appreciated.  
  
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Damnation: Vicious  
  
In my twenty-nine years of existance, I have been involved in many battles, countless fights, from minor, pointless spats, to duels which I shall not soon forget. I have used many weapons, modern and classic, technologically advanced and ancient. But none of those weapons have ever compared to the grace and beauty of the sword. None of my bouts using a gun have brought the same satisfication that comes when I use a blade, whether or not I am victorious.  
  
The sword flows with the movements of my body, an extension of myself as a gun could never be. Every vibration that sings along the blade from an impact sings in my blood as well. A simple turn of my wrist could decide a man's life, and the power of that is almost intoxicating. And of the many swords I admire, none surpass the katana, the Japanese work of art. Slender, elegant, fast, a tool of swift death or utter torture, as I see fit.  
  
There is nothing so exhilarating as killing with a sword. There is no denying the moment of death; it can be felt through the sword, the moment it pierces the heart or slices the spinal cord in two. The spill of blood can be great or small with just the slightest gesture. Decapitation makes for an excellent spectacle; simply slitting the throat is more mundane, but nonetheless effective. To use a katana, one must have skill greater than that necessary to properly wield a gun.  
  
To use a sword, you must possess the ability to enjoy death only for the grace of the actual act itself.  
  
Swords are the weapons of justice, of swift, painless execution, of clean extermination.  
  
There is nothing else quite as magnificent.  
  
Out of respect to my love of swords, of weapons, of graceful death, as long as I have lived I have surrounded myself with those who remind of such things, people who live on the edge of society, of life itself, people who live without pretenses. In a world of killers, predator and prey, there is no room for pretending. Only the question of how long you live once you have crossed me.  
  
That is what brought me to the Syndicate. That is what brought me to him. Spike.  
  
To think of him now is strange. I feel . . . nothing. There was once a time when I would at least feel rage, a type of anger, disgust, betrayal. And now, there is nothing. The memories have ceased to be a source of bitterness for me. I am beyond hatred, now, beyond feeling.  
  
However, he will still die. If only to prove to myself, to the Syndicate, that he was never the one meant to lead the pack. The wolf who is afraid to kill for what he wants is a weak wolf. The wolf who runs, showing his back, pretending to fall when he is only hiding from what he cannot face, is not worthy to rule.  
  
He is a coward. He will not face me, and therefore he has lost the right to stir any emotion within me. I will only feel out of respect, out of trust.  
  
And that explains why I rarely feel anything anymore.  
  
She falls into the same category. Julia. Only, for some reason, her memory still stirs a strand of feeling within me. Mostly, it is anger at myself. Spike I can say was solely responsible for what he did. With her, I can only lay blame to myself.  
  
I saw her. I knew what she was. And still, I allowed her near.  
  
Even though I try to ignore the past, it is insistant, unrelenting, like an incurable sickness that infects every inch of my mind, a malignant tumor eating away at the present, determined to destroy it. It is worse in quiet moments like these, when the missions slow for a millisecond and I find there is nothing on which to focus except the darkness of what has passed.  
  
I am not certain what disgusts me more about the events that brought things to what they are today: The betrayal, or my own inability to see such a betrayal coming. I should not have been so foolish. There is no point to bemoaning my ignorance now, though. Still, I cannot help but remember . . . everything.  
  
I have applied the attributes of the sword to myself in many things: Cold, clean death, swift and pale. People begin to portray the things they use and admire the most, whether by choice or unconsciously. If I had to compare Spike to any weapon--and I have, many a time--then I would say he was a semi-automatic pistol. Cool, smooth metal, seemingly harmless until the next clip is loaded and the weapon cocked, after which he becomes brash, loud, and unstoppable. Blowing messy holes in things, but getting the job done nonetheless.  
  
And her? I would say she was a dagger. A stiletto, slim, deadly, hidden in a jeweled sheath and meant to kill quietly, in the dead of night. Where she passed, there wasn't a sound, only carnage in her wake. A true predator, and for that, I respected her.  
  
Spike wouldn't describe her as such, I'm sure. However, he was always an idealistic fool, never willing to accept ruthlessness as a virtue. Despite the many things I once respected about him, I have to say, his fangs were never as sharp as mine. Or as hers.  
  
Julia was . . . fascinating. There is no other word for her. There was a fierceness, a darkness about her that drew me inexplicably. She was businesslike, competant, utterly merciless towards all those who stood in her way. And she had ambition. She understood politics, manipulation, knew the importance of gaining power. While Spike paid no attention to the intricate workings of Syndicate life--the associations, negotiations, blackmail, etcetera--Julia never lost interest in it. She and I made it our goal to become more than simply the most skilled members. We aimed to rule it all.  
  
We became involved more out of mutual respect than any real affection. I hadn't expected the relationship would cause any trouble. I hadn't expected it would be anything at all. Women were secondary in the life Spike and I lived; we required little more than a weapon and an opportunity to call our existance worthwhile. Attaining the rank of the best and keeping it was death-defying and simple. Julia brought with her aspirations for more, in both emotion and in lifestyle. She brought music that sluiced through my blood.  
  
But that isn't the point.  
  
Take a pair of wolves, brothers, who have been running and hunting at the top of the pack for years, dominant and unstoppable--and then introduce a female to the pair. Suddenly, they are bitter enemies, jostling for rank because only the best can have her. They forget the point of the hunt, and the camaraderie is lost. If it was ever truly there at all.  
  
I did trust my brother once. I even valued him, his recklessness and his irreverance. It was truly the two of us against the rest. That made his betrayal taste all the more bitter. His priorities, as always, were completely out of place. And it irritates me to think now of how much faith so many of our mutual acquaintances put in him, when, for a woman who was more conniving and ruthless than an assassin could ever be, he readily abandoned everything.  
  
I am not certain if I am more grateful to them both for opening my eyes to the fatal mistake of keeping comrades or if I despise them more. They taught me how useless caring for anyone or anything beyond your own ambitions can be. Through that, they made me stronger.  
  
I am now strong enough to pursue their deaths, to seek their blood on my blade, preferably mingled in one clean slash so that he can be with her as he seemed to want to so much. My final gift to them, besides the death we all desire so much. They both ran from me, Spike even seemed to think I wouldn't know if he lived or not, but I know. I feel it. Brothers always know. I can feel his heart still beating as if it were my own. The hungry, vengeful heart of a beast.  
  
Why should I pursue their deaths if I feel nothing towards them any longer, one might wonder. It isn't a matter of pride or love or even vengeance; it's a matter of loyalty, of the basic rules of allies and enemies. Rules that are almost nonexistant in the world of syndicates and death, but there nonetheless.  
  
I do it because of those basic rules. I do it to show, once and for all, who is the dominant wolf. But most of all, I do it because that is my part to play. I am Damnation, I am the epilouge to a story that refuses to end, and will see its end nevertheless, because we all must be judged. Death with his scythe, bringing peace in one motion.  
  
This is what I offer them, my "comrades", my brother and his lover. I am the only one who can bring them freedom. I will not let them have any other kind.  
  
The blade feels no remorse. The blade merely kills. I am what I wield, therefore I wield it with all that I am. All that is left of me.  
  
The game is almost finished. The hunt is almost complete. There is only one thing left to do: Polish the sword until it gleams, and then stain it in red.  
  
Damnation has come to end the dream, once and for all.  
  
~end~  
  
AN: That's it for this fic. I hope to write more Spike/Julia/Vicious stories in the future. Again, thanks to all my reviewers. You're gonna carry that weight. ^_~ 


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